


Compulsion - A Mystrade Advent Romance

by KaraRenee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Christmas Fluff, Flirting, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post Season 4, fluff for Crickette, mystrade, slow burn calendar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 04:44:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13092660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaraRenee/pseuds/KaraRenee
Summary: Throughout the month of December, both Greg and Mycroft find themselves having to deal with the Christmas season, old flames, and a new flirtation.





	Compulsion - A Mystrade Advent Romance

**Author's Note:**

> This is written as tiny snippets out of 25 days. And it is fluffy AF because my Crickette needs to learn to be okay with fluff.  
> Not beta'd, just self edited.

**1 December**

 

Lestrade walked down the pavement, coffee from the food truck half consumed in his left hand. His right hand was balled into a fist and buried in his overcoat pocket. He forgot his gloves on his desk. Greg did not pay attention to where his feet took him. He knew he was in Mayfair.  Eyes down, he avoided pedestrians and deliveries into the shops using his peripheral vision. Well-heeled people walked into posh restaurants for lunch. Clients went in and out of the private physician, legal and business offices.Brown trousers and leather loafers, designer heels and nylons, floral hippie skirt brushing the tops of Doc Martens, wheels of a two-wheeler laden with boxes, black jeans and scuffed kegs, grey leather shoes and dark grey trousers…

“Greg?”

Lestrade stopped short. That voice. His abdominal muscles constricted as if he had just been punched below his solar plexus. The corners of his eyes tingled. He exhaled loudly.

“Jeff.” His peripherals disappeared. The noise of early holiday shoppers on their lunch hour became a whispered backtrack.  People walking along the pavement skirted them easily. Smooth dark skin glowed as if a week out from a chemical peel. The apples of his cheeks were rosy from the chill in the air. The wintry sunlight glinted off his smooth pate. 

_ Still gorgeous. _

“How have you been? It’s been what… nearly a year?”

Greg blinked. “Um… yeah. Nearly that.”

“Well, you look great. Seen you on the telly when you do your news conferences.” Jeff ran his hand over his bald head.

“Yeah.” Panic and tears began to rise from his gut to his throat. He swallowed hard, coffee and regret attempted to rise and choke him. Greg looked the shop at his right. Coffee. Brilliant. “I was just going to grab coffees for my team. I’ll, um, see you around.” 

_ No. God no. Do not see me around. Do not look at me with those big brown eyes. Do not remind me of last Christmas… _

Jeff’s eyes went from the coffee in Greg’s hand to his eyes. “So you got yourself a coffee on your way to get coffee?”

_ Buggery hell. _

“Yeah.”

“I was going in to grab one. Join me?”

“No.” The word came out quickly. It was sharp. It took them both by surprise.

Sound came back to Greg’s ears. Pedestrians chatting on mobiles, mumbled “Pardon me”s and the chime of shop doors opening and shutting. A lorry tooted its horn as it rumbled down the street. 

“Look Greg, I’m sorry about…”

“No Jeff. We did this. I’m fine.”

“I thought you understood you were my rebound.”

“I thought you understood that I’m fine.”

“It never occurred to me you were falling in love. I mean, you never dated a man before.”

“Well, if all men are like you, being alone is preferrable.”

Jeff’s jaw went slack, eyes wide.

Greg gave him as wide a berth as he could on the crowded pavement and continued on his way.

“Jeffrey,” Mycroft’s voice cut across the shock.

He shook himself slightly, clearing his head. “Mycroft. Thank you for meeting me. Shall we go in?” Jeff nodded towards his office door.  The brass plate on the wall reading ‘Jeffrey P. Davies, Esq. Barrister’ shone. 

“I didn’t know you knew the Detective Chief Inspector.”

“I, um, used to.”

Jeff walked up the steps and unlocked his office door. Mycroft paused halfway up the cement stairs to watch the silvery head march angrily down Mayfair in the crowd.

 

**2 December**

 

Mycroft sipped his tea. Sherlock had lifted and set down his cup and saucer three times. He nibbled the edges of two ginger nuts, but had not taken actual bites. He paced the length of the fireplace, pausing only to fuss with the garlands.

“Are you coming to Mummy and Father’s for Christmas?” Sherlock rubbed at the base of the fingers of his left hand.

Mycroft’s left eyebrow shot up. “I had not planned on it this year, no. Are you intending on spending Christmas with them?”

Sherlock nodded. He looked at the undecorated tree thoughtfully. “Last Christmas was difficult for John, so soon after Mary’s death. I thought perhaps getting him and Rosie out of London for a few days would be good for them.”

“From what I understand, these are formative years for toddlers and preschoolers. Even if Miss Watson does not remember the holiday specifically, the impressions of occasion will stick with her far… my goodness, brother mine.”

“What?” Sherlock turned quickly on the ball of his foot to face his brother.

“You are going to propose.”

A rush of pink raced up Sherlock’s neck and cheeks. He flopped into his chair. “Do not be ridiculous. I’d have to have some sort of significant relationship to…”

Mycroft put up his hand. “I don’t need to have your flat bugged to know that since approximately the twelfth of June you and Doctor Watson have been exploring romance as a new facet of your relationship.”

“What makes you jump to that erroneous conclusion?” The blush did not receed.

“I have seen you both linking pinkies when you believe no one is watching you. I have seen him wrap his arm around your waist while you are holding Miss Watson. When he walks into the room, your pupils dilate. You both blush and jump apart like teenagers afraid of being caught by parents when anyone walks into the room.  And,” Mycroft tapped the bare ring finger of his own left hand. “You can’t stop massaging your own finger. You’ve been wondering what it will be like to wear a wedding band.”

Sherlock chewed the inside of his cheek.

“To answer your question, brother mine, no. I will not be spending Christmas with our parents. For one thing it will be difficult for me to get away with the recent Brexit vote in Parliament. For another, my sour countenance would not be welcome with your new happiness. No one wants this spectre at the feast. I would be, as ever, derisive in my condemnation of the holiday and family gatherings. Do know, Sherlock, that I am pleased for you and John.”

“What if he says no?”

Mycroft tutted as he rose from John’s chair. “I have been waiting for wedding bells for the two of you since Doctor Watson moved into your flat. It is not just loyalty and friendship he has for you. John Watson has saved your life countless times, and he has helped you find your heart.”

Sherlock smiled, nodded, and gazed at a framed photo of John and Rosie on the mantel.

As Mycroft slipped his overcoat on at the door, Sherlock softly said “May you find the right man to save your life and find your heart, brother dear.”

 

**3 December**

 

“Any plans to take time off for the holiday, boss?” Donovan leaned against the open door.

“Nah,” Lestrade put his feet up on his desk. “I thought I’d let you lot with partners and kids take the time.”

“No new love interests on the horizon?”

“If there were, I wouldn’t tell you, Sally. Not to be mean, but after your cousin last year, I’m keeping my personal life … personal.” 

Sally blushed. “Still sorry about that.”

“I know.” Greg leaned back and looked at the ceiling. He sighed aloud. “I ran into him the other day.”

“Ugh. How did that go?”

“Thought I was over the pain. Seeing him was like a sucker punch to the gut.” Greg sat up. “You know, seeing him just made me angry.”

“Angry at him for breaking your heart?” Sally half whispered.

“No. Angry at myself for falling for someone who I knew was just getting out of a long term relationship. Angry at myself for not playing the field a bit more while I’m busy figuring out if I’m one way, or the other way, or both ways. And I’m really angry at myself for telling him I loved him. It made me think of all the girls at school who said it to me and I brushed them off with a laugh. And all the women before and after my wife that said it, and I didn’t take it with the proper importance it was given. He treated me like I treated others. And it sucked the dogs bollocks, quite frankly.”

Sally’s eyes went wide as she nodded. 

“I could totally go for a bacon sarnie. You want to go for a walk?” Greg pulled his overcoat from the peg.

“Yeah. Yeah, sounds good. I’ll get my coat.”

 

**4 December**

 

“Are you sure you can’t get us tickets to Hamilton before Christmas?”

“Sorry, Mummy. My influence does have its limits.” Mycroft smiled venomously as he spoke. Thank goodness she was miles away on the other end of a phone. If she was in the room with him, he would certainly get a smack on the arm. 

“Well, then, at least you could take a few days off and join the boys and Rosie when they come out.”

“There wouldn’t be enough bedrooms, Mummy. Sherlock in his old room, John in the spare, and Rosie in mine.”

Mycroft moved his mobile away from his ear while his mother cackled uproariously. “Oh, Mikey, you are a silly creature. I guarantee you that Sherlock and John will be sharing a bed while they are here. Rosie will have the spare and you can have your old room.”

“What makes you think John and Sherlock would be sharing…?”

Phone away from his ear again to spare his hearing. His mother’s laugh could be heard for miles.

“Do not think for one minute that your great ‘powers of deduction’ came from anywhere but me. You inherited it from me. And I taught you as children. You may be clever, my boy, but I’m the queen of deduction.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Liz she has competition for the crown from outside the royal family,” Mycroft mumbled through gritted teeth.

“Cheeky boy.” Mrs. Holmes admonished. 

“Must dash, Mother. Love to Father. Ta.” Mycroft disconnected the call and placed the phone face down on his desk.

Mycroft stared at nothing, eyes unfocused. Putting his mother off was one item off his agenda. Composing a reply to Jeff Davies would be next. The ambitious barrister had aims towards running for MP. Background checks had come back clean. Good student at university, out at a young age, confident and discreet in his relationships, excellent credit. Cousin in the police service.  Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan.

How did his relationship with DCI Lestrade not come up? Who missed that vital bit of information in this report?

He picked up the phone.

“Anthea, who gathered the intel on Davies?”

“I did, sir.”

“His personal relationship history is incomplete.”

“How do you know?” Her voice hitched. She was nervous.

“Because I know who he dated at this time last year.”

Silence.

“Anthea.”

“I didn’t think it was relevant, sir.”

“I am vetting Davies for a post in Parliament. I need all his information. Would you care to explain yourself?”

She exhaled into the phone. “It’s not my place, I know. But I’ve noticed the way you and the Detective Inspector look at one another.”

“Detective Chief Inspector.”

“The relationship ended badly for the Detective Chief Inspector. I didn’t want this to sway you away from him as a.” She ended her sentence abruptly.

“As a what, Anthea?”

“As a potential romantic interest, sir.”

Mycroft bit his lower lip. Had he been obvious? 

“If I have ever shown any outward signs of affection, or…”

“Not just you, sir. I’ve observed it in him as well.”

Silence. Mycroft bit the corner of his lip.

“The report is complete other than that bit of information sir. Is there anything else you need?”

“Not now. Thank you.”

 

**5 December**

 

The shop was packed with people. The weather had turned from chilly to arctic.  Everyone was bundled in puffy jackets,mufflers and mittens. Greg couldn’t help but keep an eye on every person who walked past.  It would be far too easy for shoplifters to hide a doll or a set of sexy knickers under these coats. 

“Are you being served, sir?”

A cheery clerk approached him. She was all of eighteen. Bleach blonde hair, heavily painted eyes, sweater just a little too tight. If this was his daughter, he’d not let her out of the house to work until her face was scrubbed clean and she had a properly fitted top.

“Sir?”

“Sorry. No, I’ve not been helped yet.”

“You got a look on your face like my dad gets when I leave the house.”

Greg chuckled. “I’m sure.”

“Are you looking for a present for your daughter?”

“Oh, I don’t have any kids. Looking for something for a three year old girl and a baby boy.”

“Niece and nephew?” 

“Children of coworkers. Rosie likes building things. Do you have those bricks that teach coding?”

“For a three year old?”

“She’s insanely clever.”

“Okay then. This way. And how old is the baby?”

When had Sally gone out on maternity leave? May. “He’s about seven months.”

As they walked towards a display of building bricks, Greg stopped short. “Mycroft.”

“Gregory.”

“I’ll be able to assist you once I’m done helping this gentleman, sir.” The clerk addressed Mycroft.

“I believe we may be shopping for the same child. Perhaps I’ll tag along to make sure I don’t purchase the same gift.” 

They exchanged smiles. Greg felt his face get warm as he watched colour rise in Mycroft’s pale cheeks. 

“I didn’t know you bought gifts for Rosie.”

“I have reason to believe I should be counting her as family. And Mummy has explained to me that gifts for children on holidays are expected by family.”

“So it’s official? They’re out?”

“Not out, as it were.  But Sherlock confirmed he will be proposing over Christmas.”

“Here you are, sir. The building bricks you wanted.” The blonde smiled broadly at them.

“E-Blox?” Mycroft looked over the colourful boxes on the shelf. “I was going to get her a doll that cried.”

Greg smiled. “She’d tell her dads it was broken and ask for a screwdriver to take it apart to fix it. Here,” he picked up the smaller circuit board box and pressed it to the front of Mycroft’s suit. “This way the gifts go together.”

“Yours is larger.”

“Possibly, mate,” Greg snickered. “Yours isn’t a bad size.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “How droll of you, Detective Chief Inspector.” 

“That smile in your eyes and that tiny grin,” Greg pointed to the corner of Mycroft’s mouth, “tell me you thought it was funny, Mr. Holmes.”

“Wedding rings are on the second floor in jewelry,” the clerk blurted out.

Both men turned. The young woman went fuschia. She took a few steps backward, before darting up another aisle and away from them. When Greg turned back to Mycroft, he swore the elder Holmes brother was the same shade of pink as the sales clerk. 

 

**6 December**

 

The pub was quiet for a Wednesday. Just a few regulars. The bartender nodded towards Greg as he entered, and then towards a booth in the corner.  Greg nodded in thanks and headed towards John.

“Hey, everything alright? Your text was not specific.”

John twirled a small black box in his fingers. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just wanted to run something by you.”

“Shoot.” Greg nodded thanks to the bartender as he placed his pint on the table with a bowl of crisps. 

“I’m going to ask Sherlock to marry me over Christmas.”

“Bloody hell.”

“What? Bit too soon?”

“No,” he blurted out. “You two have been together in my mind for years. It’s great.”

“Think he’ll say yes?”

Greg hid his smile behind the foam on his mug. “I can guarantee it.”

John flipped the box open to reveal a platinum band. Greg lifted it from its satin lining. The inside was engraved.

“Your address? What? In case he gets lost, someone can return him home?”

John placed his head on the table. “Was that stupid? I wanted it to be romantic. The place we fell in love. The place we call home.”

Greg felt a pang of guilt. He looked at the engraving again. “221B Baker Street” in elegant script.  

“I’m sorry, John. It’s really romantic when you explain it. I’m just a prat. Out of sorts with the holidays coming.”

“Shit. I didn’t even think, Greg. Sorry. You still on your voluntary dating drought?”

“After the mess I was last Christmas, I think it’s safer.”

“Lonelier.”

“Sod off.”

 

**7 December**

_ We should talk - GL _

_ Good Evening DCI Lestrade. Is there a problem? - MH _

_ Not yet. Meet me for a drink? - GL _

How odd.  Normally it was Mycroft who called meetings with the Yard for security reasons, or with Gregory for Sherlock reasons. He was not accustomed to being summoned by the detective. He was intrigued.

_ I am unavailable this evening. Perhaps tomorrow at 8 p.m. if that suits you. Meet me at my club. - MH _

_ Myc, it’s 12am. The evening is over. I’m heading to bed. See you tomorrow. - GL _

Mycroft looked at his watch, his phone, and the grandfather clock across the room. He had not realized the hour. 

‘Myc’? Gregory had never used any sort of diminutive of his name in the past.  ‘Myc’. He pondered it.  He despised when his mother called him Mikey. This spelling, and this diminutive pleased him somehow. 

‘Heading to bed.’ Mycroft’s mind began to re-dress the silver haired detective. Did he sleep in shorts and a vest? Soft cotton lounge pants? Silk boxers? Did he have a plush robe, or just a threadbare NSY hoodie with the drawstrings pulled out of the hood? Unzipped to expose a semi-defined chest peppered with silvery hairs…

Blood rushed to his cock. His heart rate increased. What was this? Was he have a primal reaction to thoughts of an undressed Gregory Lestrade? Mycroft closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths.  Clearly he was tired and his mind was out of focus. Perhaps he’d been working too hard. He’d head up to bed. Sleep would clear his mind of these silly thoughts. 

03:14 

Mycroft huffed. Three hours and he could not fall asleep. He lay in his wide bed, eyes closed, head on his pillow, and images of the DCI paraded through his head. In work suits. Damp from a shower, towel around his waist. Faded tee shirt and cotton shorts, sweaty from a run. Naked, that impish grin upon his lips, twinkle in his chocolate brown eyes, Father Christmas hat upon his head as he took Mycroft’s cock in his mouth.

Ugh. There was nothing else for it. Mycroft palmed his erection. He groaned. It only took a few strokes over his pajamas for him to climax. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, while his semen cooled in his pants. This may complicate his business relationship with Lestrade. 

 

**8 December**

“I sometimes wonder if being summoned to the queen is anything like this.” Greg bowed his head and winked before taking the seat across from Mycroft.

“What do you mean?”

“You know,” he waved his hand. “Men in ridiculously expensive suits ushering people through quiet halls. Heavy doors hiding secrets. Rooms full of posh chairs and brandy that may cost more than my life.” He accepted the proffered glass. 

Mycroft sipped his own brandy. “While it is a fine bottle, you are far more valuable than it, or even a case of it.”

Greg’s eyes widened. Mycroft realized how his comment could be interpreted and felt a now familiar rush of heat to his face. 

He cleared his throat and steepled his fingers the way his younger brother did. “You asked to meet me, Detective Chief Inspector.  What is it you wish to discuss?”

“Your brother and John.”

“These two always bring us together.”

Greg’s smile was so wide his eyes crinkled. “I’ll write them a thank you note.”

Mycroft’s orderly, precise, in control mind began to spin. Was Lestrade flirting with him? Was he flirting back? The DCI’s value to himself, to his brother, and the police service was greater than the cost of several cases of his favoured brandy. Was that really what he meant? When did he, Mycroft Holmes, begin to question if his words could possibly have double meaning?

“You said the other day that Sherlock plans on proposing to John at your parents over Christmas.”

“That is correct.”

“I had a pint with John Wednesday night. I saw the engagement ring he bought for Sherlock.”

Mycroft reached for his brandy. “How adorable,” he wrinkled his nose. Greg wasn’t sure if that was disdain or an attempt to be cute. “When does Doctor Watson plan on proposing to my brother?”

“Over Christmas at your parents’.”

“Well then, I am certainly glad I will not be joining them for the holidays. It sounds like the plot to a Richard Curtis film.”

“Do you have any reason to suspect Sherlock would say no if John asked first?”

The elder Holmes raised a silent brow of inquiry.

“It’s just that John is really nervous. Coming to terms with your sexuality is one thing. Making a commitment to a person is another level. I don’t want him to get hurt like…” Greg let the sentence die in a swig of brandy. 

“My brother is similarly nervous. Sherlock has always known he is gay. Watching John’s history with women has been, I am sure, heart breaking. It is not easy being in love with someone who may never love you because they were not born the same way.” 

Greg looked thoughtfully at the nervous man in front of him. Could Mycroft being telling him a little something about himself while discussing Sherlock and John? Long ago Greg knew he could not keep any secrets from Mycroft. Working with Sherlock, helping to keep an eye on him for his brother, meant that Mycroft kept an up to date file on Lestrade. This included personal information and dating habits. Surely Mycroft knew of how Greg had been exploring his identity in the last two years. It would not matter how discreet he or his lovers had been, this man across from him would know.

“So, they are two idiots madly in love. No fear of either of them saying no?”

“I do not believe so. They are, as you say, two idiots in love.”

 

**9 December**

The images were hazy at the edges, the way dreams are. People wandered in and out. Conversations happened. Everything was familiar in that slightly off way dreams are. Sherlock was rolling his eyes. John was walking Rosie down Baker Street.  Mrs. Hudson handed him a beaker of tea with a smile. Mycroft strode out of the haze, green three piece suit and tie, umbrella hooked over one finger.  He stopped inches from Greg’s face and sniffed him like a wild animal. Greg shivered. 

“This is what you want.”

“We don’t need the brelly.”

“What if it rains?”

“We can’t shag in the street.”

“The rain gets the dogs wet.”

Dream Greg was standing naked in warm rain. Dream Mycroft’s hands were all over him, touching every inch, pinching his nipples and discovering only his left one was subject to arousal. Dream Mycroft leaned closer and whispered, “Show me.”

Greg woke up, painfully erect cock in his fist, clothes thrown across the room. He pumped into his fist, biting back the name he wanted to cry out. 

Laying naked in his bed, Greg wiped his hand on tissues. He lay there, waiting for his breath to calm, staring into the darkness, with one name on his lips.

 

**10 December**

 

Mycroft stared at him, unblinking. Those yellow green eyes were full of venom, of hatred, and it was all directed towards him. Larry stared back as he sat upon the seat opposite. His tabby tail flicked back and forth.

“Mycroft, why doesn’t Larry like you?” The Prime Minister walked in, scooped up the white and brown tabby cat, and sat in his spot. 

“He knows I prefer Sybil.”

Mrs. May tutted.  “Larry senses your dislike. You should relax a bit. You haven’t replied to the cabinet holiday party.  Are you bringing a plus one this year?”

“Theresa, how long have you known me?”

She crossed her feet at her ankles and rested one arm casually on her chair.  “I remember before your hair started to recede.”

Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line, nostrils flared. “In all those years have I ever brought a plus one to the party?”

“No. But I do keep hoping someday you will.”

 

**11 December**

 

_ Busy? - GL _

_ I am always busy, Detective Chief Inspector. - MH _

_ Oh. okay. Night. - GL _

Mycroft stared at his silent phone, index finger hovering over the keypad.

_ I never thanked you for assisting me the other day with my gift purchases for Miss Watson. Since you are more familiar with her, I feel assured she shall enjoy my offerings. - MH _

_ LOL! Your ‘offerings’. You have a sense of humor, Myc. Why don’t you ever let it out? - GL _

_ … _

_ You’re welcome, BTW.  We can’t have the new uncle not know how to shop for her. - GL _

_ I wasn’t good with children when I was a child. - MH _

_ I can’t imagine you as a child. What was young Mycroft Holmes like? - GL _

_ I was shorter and had slightly more hair. - MH _

_ LOL! - GL _

_ What does that mean? - MH _

_ LOL? Laugh out loud. - GL _

_ Thank you. - MH _

Mycroft blushed. He disliked being ignorant. Lestrade made him feel at ease. It was not overly embarrassing to ask him to clarify things.

_ BTW is By the way. - GL _

_ Doctor Watson made me familiar with that one some time ago. He never sends me an LOL, though. - MH _

_ Maybe you’re only funny with me :) -GL _

His hand shook.  He was pleased that Lestrade thought he was funny. 

_ I don’t want to be rude, Detective, but was there a reason you texted? - MH _

_ … _

_ …. _

_ …. _

Mycroft began to worry that he had been rude.

_ I was watching the football match and it wasn’t any good. And I was thinking about you because you don’t like football. I have a cold beer in my hand and I was just _

His heart rate increased. He presumed it was his heart that was banging on the inside of his chest and making that drumming sound in his ears. 

... _ sitting here wondering what Mycroft Holmes did at night. But if I’m interrupting government business, I’ll toodle off. - GL _

_ I am reading a book and having some chamomile tea. - MH _

_ Sounds relaxing. - GL _

_ You mean boring, Detective. - MH _

_ Not at all. I like being home, kicking it back all quiet like. I like thinking about you doing the same. - GL _

His heartbeat was making his eyes pulse. His phone slipped a bit from his damp palms. 

_ You can call me Greg, you know. You don’t have to be formal with me all the time. - GL _

_ Look, I’ve got an early start. Thanks for the chat. Good night, Myc.  TTYL - GL _

Mycroft placed the phone down and pressed his palms to his eyes. Was DCI Lestrade just flirting with him over text message? 

He was not sure how long he sat that way. When he straightened his back, he was sore and his tea was stone cold. The battery on his phone was getting low. The clock on the screen told him he had been sitting there thinking about Gregory Lestrade for nearly an hour. 

_ I also enjoyed our chat, Gregory. - MH _

 

**12 December**

Greg rubbed his eyes and reached for his phone. He had put it on silent after his impromptu text conversation with Mycroft.  He had been working a case for three days solid and was exhausted.  

Text message from Mycroft Holmes. 

_ I also enjoyed our chat, Gregory. _

The grin woke up his face muscles. 

The phone rang. Donovan.

“Yep.”

“Morning, boss.  We have a suspect in custody.”

“Excellent. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

As Greg, fully dressed, raced down the steps of his building, he paused to read the last text from Mycroft again. 

_ Only my mum ever called me Gregory when she was mad. I like it when you call me Gregory. - GL _

God. What the hell did he just send? He had been flirting with Mycroft for a while. He couldn’t stop thinking about him. It seemed like Mycroft was flirting back. But who could ever tell with the Holmes brothers?  John certainly struggled for years trying to figure out Sherlock. Would he even know that Greg was flirting with him? With a heavy exhale in the cold morning air, Greg got into his car and headed to work.

***

“Your phone buzzed.”

“Yes it did. Don’t deflect. I need to know if you will take this case, dear brother.”

Mycroft’s fingers itched to retrieve his mobile from his pocket.  Gregory should have been awake by now. DS Donovan had a suspect in custody. His silver head should be behind the wheel of his car, naturally tanned complexion turning a healthy pink in the cold winter air…

_ Only my mum ever called me Gregory when she was mad. I like it when you call me Gregory. - GL _

His breath stopped for a second. There could be no doubt. Lestrade was flirting with him. And Mycroft liked it. 

“Are you blushing, Mycroft?” John set a beaker of tea next to him.

“He’s received a text from someone he fancies.” Sherlock quipped.

“If Mycroft fancied anyone, that would mean his body functions like a normal human being.  Emotions, sexual response.  I don’t know, Sherlock. Not Mycroft’s style.” John smirked.

“Will you, or will you not take the case, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked to John.  John shrugged. “It’s only a six. It’ll be a quick one. You already have leads sussed out in your head. Just tell him yes and send him on his way.”

“Fine. I’ll text you this evening. I should have it solved before Rosie’s bedtime.”

***

Lestrade tossed his coat over his desk chair. Sally stood against the file cabinets, donut and coffee in hand.

“Ta,” Greg took the proffered coffee. 

“Want the donut?”

“Nah, I’m good.” 

Sally raised an eyebrow, but stayed silent. It wasn’t like him to turn down a donut. 

“Suspect is Marjorie Harper. Fifty-five. Housekeeper. Had access to all the homes where the murders took place. I think she’s the pet killer, too. She trained as a veterinarian thirty years ago, but never graduated. Questionable lab practices.”

“Great. Let me down more of this coffee and I’ll be…”

His mobile buzzed. 

_ I normally dislike diminutives. But I like it when you call me Myc. - MH _

“Are you blushing, sir?”

“Nope. Coffee is hot. Let’s go.”

 

**13 December**

The breakthrough in the case ended up leading to more questions. Cold cases going back thirty years were being reopened to find potential links to the housekeeper.  Greg let the hot shower beat against his back.  He rolled his head side to side, stretching his neck muscles. He made a flannel soapy and slowly washed away the tension of the case. The cloth was rough. Greg rubbed it up and down his arms and underarms, scrubbing away the images of the horrors Marjorie Harper allegedly perpetrated. He put more soap on the flannel, and scrubbed the sweat, antiperspirant and stink of the interrogation room from his under arms. 

Greg turned to let the water beat down on his face and chest.  The soap ran in lines down his torso, tracing the lines of muscles, tiny bubbles swirling and popping on his chest hair.  _ Does Mycroft have chest hair? Does he shower or luxuriate in a huge bathtub? Probably shower. He’s too busy to relax in a bath. _  He took the flannel down his abdomen and under his testicles. He grunted. Dropping the flannel to the shower floor, he lathered up his hands with the bar of soap.  Slick hands stroked his cock. Greg cupped his testicles with his left, while  his right stroked from base to tip, thumb rubbing over the slit.

He groaned. It had been nearly a year since his last relationship. Six months since his last meaningless shag. And two days since his last wank. Mycroft’s face swam in his vision behind closed eyes.  Always buttoned up and serious. The fate of the kingdom and possibly much of the world in his hands. What did that face look like in the throws of passion? What did that face look like with Greg’s cock in his mouth?

“Fucking hell,” Greg panted. His fist held tightly, his wrist pumped back and forth like a piston. As his release overtook him, he grunted “Myc…”. Ropes of semen swirled down the drain.

 

**14 December**

 

“You have yet to reply to the cabinet holiday party,” Theresa stopped him in the corridor.

“I am afraid I have a personal commitment that I cannot get out of, Prime Minister.”

“Saturday evening, Mr. Holmes. I expect to see you.”

Mycroft bowed his head. “While the cabinet holiday party is often the highlight of the year, what with all the documentation of unsavoury behaviours I have to do in the hours following, I am truly unable to join you.”

“You had better have a date or a funeral, Mr. Holmes.”

Theresa pursed her lips and strode away.

_ Are you busy Saturday evening? - MH _

_ As long as the criminals can behave for a bit, I have no plans. Sherlock? -GL _

_ Thankfully this time, no, not Sherlock. Dinner? 8pm? - MH _

_ Yeah. Okay. Where? - GL _

He had not thought that far ahead. It would need to be somewhere public. Somewhere they would be spotted by someone who would report back to the Prime Minister. 

_ Cinnamon Club. - MH _

_ Wow. Alright. See you Saturday. - GL _

_ Rakesh, can I get a reservation for two for Saturday evening?- MH _

_ Mycroft! Cutting it a bit close, aren’t you? I can get you a table in the main dining room. - R _

_ That will be suitable. Thank you. 8pm? - MH _

_ Only for you, my friend. - R _

 

**15 December**

 

“Hey,” John nodded as he passed Greg on the landing. 

“Where are you going?” 

“Um, upstairs to put Rosie’s clean laundry away.” John looked into the basket of neatly folded clothes in his arms. “Sherlock’s in the kitchen.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not here to see him.” 

“Alright. Come on up while I put these away.”

Greg looked around at the room that used to be John’s. He had never been up there before, but it was evident to him that John no longer slept here.  The single bed had side rails and piles of plush toys. The pink blanket and sheer pink curtains on the windows gave a softness to the room. John hung little dresses and jumpers in the wardrobe. 

“What’s going on that you want to talk to me and not Sherlock?”

“I think I have a date tomorrow night.”

John clapped him on the shoulder. “Good on you, mate. I’ve been worried about you since…” they shared a look. “This is great news.  Who with?”

“Well, that’s the weird part.”

“Weirder than Donovan’s cousin?”

Greg looked slightly pained. They had agreed not to talk about that.

“Sorry, mate.”

“Possibly. It’s with Mycroft,” Greg whispered.

“Mycroft? Mycroft Holmes?”

“Shhh!” 

“Are you sure?”

“He texted me yesterday and asked me to dinner tomorrow at the Cinnamon Club.”

“He knows the head chef.” John place a stack of tiny leggings in a drawer. “This is a bit sudden isn’t it?”

“Can you get out for a pint? There are some things I haven’t told you.”

 

**16 December**

 

Just over a week until Christmas, and every restaurant and pub was packed. Pre-holiday meetings of friends or relatives that would not see each other until the new year. Office parties, coworkers mingling socially when they would not normally. Drunken groping that often led to human resource nightmares, bitter feelings, and the occasional accidental pregnancy. 

The Cinnamon Club, fresh from its expensive renovations, was fully booked. The banisters in the library room were draped with evergreen swags, red velvet bows and white fairy lights. Each table was laid with stark white linens and red napkins. Wait staff had all traded out their usual black ties for green. 

Greg scooped more of the garam masala Christmas pudding while Mycroft sipped his coffee. 

“You should have more before I eat it all. It’s fantastic.”

“I shall be sure to let Ravesh know how much you are enjoying this.” Mycroft smiled, skin flush with rich food, hot coffee, and the mango infused Scotch Whisky cocktail he enjoyed before their meal. 

“It isn’t fair if I eat it all, Myc. Come on. I won’t be able to fit into my trousers if I eat all this. Here.” Greg held out his spoon, full of the pudding, towards Mycroft. 

Mycroft eyed the dessert suspiciously.

“You know you want it.” Greg said huskily.

He leaned forward, licking his bottom lip. “This is only to save you from having to buy new trousers.” Mycroft closed his mouth over the spoon, eyes never leaving Greg’s. He kept the spoon in his mouth for a few seconds longer than necessary. He pulled back slowly, and sat with a smug grin.

“Wow,” Greg exhaled. “You, um, really like that, huh?”

Mycroft wiped the corner of his mouth with the red napkin. The smile left his lips, but not his eyes.

“I, um, I’ll be back. Going to the gents.” Greg stood awkwardly and headed towards where the nearby waiter who had heard him was pointing.

“More water, sir?” The waiter approached Mycroft.

Sobering up and cooling down were good ideas. He nodded.  The waiter topped off his water goblet.

“If I may be so bold, sir, it is wonderful to see a married couple still so much in love.” She winked and moved to the next table.

***

Greg washed his hands and stared into the mirror. What in the world was happening tonight? He wore his best navy suit, which everyone told him played up the handsome silver of his hair and his dark eyes.  He was nervous and excited, because it might be a date. But Mycroft had not said if it was a date. Mycroft wore a suit Greg had never seen before. It was also navy, with a silvery grey pinstripe. In lieu of his usual waist coat, he had a pale grey cashmere sweater and red tie. A nearly casual look for Mycroft Holmes! 

A man stood at the sink beside Greg. They nodded to one another’s reflections.

“Twentieth wedding anniversary is Christmas Eve. But since we had kids I can’t celebrate them together, you know? So this is our early anniversary dinner.  How about you two? How many years have you been together?”

“Excuse me?” Greg turned to face him.

“You and your partner,” the stranger continued. “Let me guess. At least fifteen years together. It’s great still being in love after so long, right?”

Greg was in shock. He nodded mutely.

“I know.” The stranger clapped him on the shoulder. “Romance never dies. Just changes. Anyway, lovely to see another happy couple. Happy Christmas.”

The stranger tossed his paper towels into the bin as he left.

Greg leaned against the sink, chewing his lip thoughtfully.

***

Greg pulled on his overcoat and reached out to take his scarf from the coat check woman. Mycroft reached out a gloved hand to flatten the lapel of Greg’s coat. Their eyes met, and then they quickly looked away, both blushing.

“Mycroft!” A short woman in a garish, glittery red sweater, lipstick and shoes that matched, and a skirt so tight it nearly hobbled her, approached. 

“Gillian,” he nodded. 

“I thought that was you. I was in the library room, private party. But I told Robert it looked like you. Didn’t I, dear?” She addressed the somber looking gentleman behind her.

“You did,” he smiled as he shook Mycroft’s hand.

Both Gillian and her husband looked pointedly at Greg.

“Gregory, may I introduce Gillian and Robert May.”

Greg shook their proffered hands. 

“This is Gregory Lestrade, detective chief inspector with New Scotland Yard.”

“Oh, how lovely!” Gillian squealed. 

“Very nice to meet you, Inspector,” Robert mumbled.

“Well, we were just off. Have a lovely evening.” Mycroft nodded towards the couple, placed a hand in the small of Greg’s back,and steered him towards the front door.

“They seemed nice,” Greg said once they were safely outside.

“The Prime Minister’s first cousin and his wife.” 

Mycroft’s phone buzzed. He quickly looked over the screen.  “I need to get to the office. May I have my driver drop you home, Gregory?”

Lestrade tried not to let his disappointment show on his face. “Nah. That’s alright. I took a cab to get here. I’ll grab another.” 

Mycroft gave Greg a sad look before getting into his car and disappearing into London traffic.

 

**17 December**

 

Mycroft stood by the window, not paying attention to the people in the room, and not seeing the grey winter day beyond the glass.  The meeting had been going since the night before when he left Gregory on the pavement outside the Cinnamon Club. He was exhausted, running on too many cups of coffee and too many palpations on acupressure points to keep awake.

As the arguing continued behind him, Mycroft allowed his mind to wander.  It replayed for him smiles, laugh lines at the corner of dark brown eyes, the sound of rich laughter scratchy from the gin cocktail. The flash of sadness in a handsome face as he left him. What if he had not headed into this current misery? What would they have done after dinner? Mycroft imagined Greg seated next to him in the back of his car, stomachs full of wonderful cuisine, heads full of hot coffee and sugar and too many fine cocktails. Hands out of gloves, creeping across the leather seat to tentatively touch. Smooth fingertips, calluses, delicate hairs between knuckles, the electric shock that hits the heart and the groin at those first caresses…

“Mr. Holmes?”

“Apologies, Deputy Minister. I cannot  see an end to this discussion. I propose we end it here as none of you can agree on a compromise. Good day.”

Mycroft took his briefcase from the conference table and left the room.

 

**18 December**

“Got you a donut, boss.”

“No thanks, Sally.” Greg looked over the file in front of him.

“But it’s your favourite.” She opened the paper bag to wave the powdered donut under his nose.

“Seriously. I’m fine.”

“Are you on a diet and didn’t tell us?”

“What?” Greg looked up from the file. “Why would I be on a diet?”

“You haven’t eaten a donut for weeks.”

“Nah. Just getting ready for the influx of leftover holiday treats you all will bring in after Boxing Day.”   
  


**19 December**

_ Why aren’t you going home for Christmas? - GL _

_ Good Evening, Gregory. I will be home for Christmas. - MH _

_ I mean your parent’s house. - GL _

_ I don’t want to be the spectre at the feast. My brother and John will be celebrating and happy. If I am there I shall only cause strife. - MH _

_ That’s not what I meant. - GL _

_ Why are you asking?- MH _

_ Because John and Sherlock and Rosie are all excited to go to the country to celebrate the holiday as a family.  Sherlock was telling Rosie about the 8 foot tall tree your parents will have, and all the lights and food. And the caroling and stories.- GL _

_ Ugh. All the reasons I shall stay in London. - MH _

_ Come on, Myc. Tell me the real reason. - GL _

_ Religion. Tradition. Sentiment. Caring is not an advantage. - MH _

_ I don’t think you really believe that. - GL _

_ For too many years you and I have kept an eye on my brother. Christmas has always been a danger night for him. Now he has Doctor Watson and Miss Watson.  I am not needed to babysit, as it were. - MH _

_ You don’t know how to celebrate the holiday without worrying about Sherlock. - GL _

_ … _

_ Possibly. - MH _

 

**20 December**

Sherlock stared a little too long at his waist. Greg closed his suit jacket before sitting down.

“Bit awkward, Sherlock. What are you looking at?”

“You’ve lost five pounds.”

“What?”

“Your belt is one notch tighter than usual. And your buttons aren’t struggling anymore. Are you dieting?”

“My buttons have never ‘struggled’, you prat.”

“I think what Sherlock is trying to say, Greg, is that you look good.”

“Thanks, John.”

 

**21 December**

Mycroft paused on the pavement outside the club. A feathery light snow drifted down from the dark sky.

“I’d like to walk for a bit,” he addressed his driver. 

Mycroft strolled towards Regent’s Park. There were few people out. Just enough to leave fleeting footprints in the snow as it continued to fall and cover the ground. The air was dry, so the flakes blew about in swirls as a jogger ran past. Fountains were turned off, their stone shapes and faces a similar grey to the low cloud cover that reflected back the city lights. 

As they had all month, Mycroft’s thoughts turned to a certain silver haired Detective. He was not sure if Gregory had been friendlier because of the Christmas season, or if it was because he was a bit of a romantic and got caught up in the impending dual proposals from John and Sherlock. Of course, it could be that Mycroft was feeling alone, and misinterpreting Lestrade’s friendliness as flirting. 

He lifted his eyes to watch the snow flutter through the bare branches of a beech tree.

“Catching snowflakes on your tongue?”

Mycroft turned to see a smiling silver fox dusted in snow.

“It works better if you open your mouth and stick your tongue out.” Greg leaned his head back, eyes closed, opened his mouth, and stuck out his tongue inelegantly.

The vision of Gregory’s tongue, thick and pink with snowflakes melting upon it created sensations in the vicinity of Mycroft’s trousers. Sensations that were more familiar in these last few weeks than they had been since puberty.

“Good evening, Gregory.”

He shut his mouth with a grin. “Happy Yuletide, Mycroft.”

“I did not think you celebrated the ancient Pagan festival.”

“Not really. Not since college anyway. But I always take a walk in the dark on the solstice.  My own little way of keeping in touch with nature. Not a lot of time to pay attention to it dredging the Thames for bodies.”

“Ah, yes. I did read about that. Unfortunate. Was your diver okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s fine. That water was colder than he was expecting. He had a heart condition he wasn’t aware of. He’ll be reassigned after the new year.”

They strode in silence, the hush of falling snow blanketing them from the noises of the city outside the park.

“Any plans for Sunday evening?” Greg turned his collar up against the cold.

Mycroft pressed his lips and made a thoughtful face. “Avoiding calls and texts from my parents and various government officials who mistakenly think of me as a friend.”

“Sounds, um… boring.”

They laughed together.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak. He wanted to invite Greg over for a drink. He wanted right now, this moment,  to go the way he imagined dinner should have gone the other night.

Greg’s mobile rang.

“Yep. Okay. Yeah,” he sighed. “I’ll be right there.”  He pocketed the phone. “I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded.

“Great. I, um… bye.” Greg jogged towards the street.

 

**22 December**

 

_ Why are you not taking time off for the holiday? - MH _

_ Someone has to keep the city safe. - GL _

_ Do you have any plans at all? - MH _

_ Nope. Well, maybe I’ll have a pint on my way home Christmas Eve. - GL _

_ A pint alone?- MH _

_ Look, Mycroft, I’m sure you know all about my personal life. You’ve likely got a dossier on me. So let’s just say that since I got dumped on Christmas Day last year, I don’t really care about it. It’s just another day. - GL _

Mycroft looked sadly at the screen. He was most definitely rubbish at flirting.

 

**23 December**

 

“I’m nervous, Greg. Not going to lie.” John cut a pickle into smaller bits for Rosie to eat. 

“It’ll be brilliant. Romantic! And he’ll say yes.” Greg bit into his sandwich.

“He’s so different now. Well, when we’re alone. He’s still Sherlock Bloody Holmes all the other hours of the day.” 

“Daddy, I’m big now. I can eat pickles.”

Greg chuckled. “He’s different now. Grounded. More real. I see it.”

“What if he says no? What the hell am I gonna do?”

“Is bad word, Daddy.” Rosie said, mouth full of pickle and cheese.

“Don’t talk with food in your mouth, Rosie.” John wiped a bit of cheese from her chin.

“He’s going to say yes. He’s been in love with you for years. It’s a sure thing.”

“Speaking of,” John sipped his water. “What’s going on with you and Mycroft?”

“I dunno. He is flirting with me one minute, then he’s distant and I can’t read him. I am starting to think it’s all in my imagination.”

***

“Last chance to join us, brother dear.” Sherlock fanned out his dressing gown as he sat.

“Sherlock, the last time I went home for Christmas, you drugged me and stole my laptop.”

“I shall be too busy proposing to John to do that again,” he grinned.

“You are a master at multitasking. I don’t know if I should trust you.”

“Do you think he’ll say no?”

“Doctor Watson?” Mycroft asked incredulously. “No, brother mine. I do not think he’ll say no. As I have stated before, I have been waiting for the happy announcement from the two of you since the day he moved in. I fully expect a wedding date to be set by Boxing Day.”

 

**24 December**

Mycroft sat alone in front of the fire. His brandy was untouched. His phone in his hand. 

_ Have you been flirting with me? - GL _

_ Because I’ve been flirting with you. And I’m rubbish at reading if people are flirting with me. And what was dinner the other night? Was that a date? Cos that’s the sort of thing I think of as a date _

_ … _

_ I had a really nice time. And I like you. And I’m confused and drunk as hell right now. - GL _

_ Yes, Gregory, I have been flirting with you. - MH _

Mycroft’s hands were shaking.

_ I was hoping it was a date. I am also rubbish, as you say, at reading if people are flirting with me. I am hopelessly clueless when it comes to romance.  I am the sort of man who needs the interested party to throw themselves at me for me to understand they are interested. - MH _

The doorbell rang. Mycroft looked at the time. Who would be at his house at nearly midnight on Christmas Eve? He opened the front door.

“Gregory?”

Without a word, Greg pushed Mycroft back inside the house. He shut the door with his foot. Greg’s palm did not lose contact with the front of Mycroft’s waist coat. He backed the stunned Holmes into the nearest wall, eyes fixed on his mouth. Mycroft let out a soft “ooof” as he bumped into the wainscotting. Greg leaned in, on tiptoes, and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s.

“Is that enough throwing myself at you, Myc? Or do I have to undo all these damned buttons and take you here on the vestibule carpet?”

“You don’t taste like alcohol.”

“I lied in case you didn’t feel the same.”

“There is a softer rug and some throw pillows in the library. And I have a fire going.”

“Brilliant,” Greg pulled gently at his bottom lip with his mouth. “Lead on.”

 

**25 December**

_ Oh, Mikey, it was so lovely! I wish you had been here! - Mummy _

_ Your mother won’t stop crying. I’ve not seen her this happy in years. Happy Christmas, son - Dad _

_ Greg! He said yes! Of course, we fell over each other and into the tree and nearly knocked the bloody thing over because we were trying to propose at the same time. - JW _

_ Happy Christmas, brother mine. You were correct. John said yes. Of course he also proposed to me. I am positive Mummy will tell the tale for years to come. - SH _

_ Did you and Mycroft figure your stuff out? I want you to have a good Christmas. - JW _

 

“I keep telling you,” Mycroft growled in his ear as he pinned Greg’s wrists to the floor above his head. “Ignore them. I have instructed the Yard to only contact you through Anthea. Everyone else be damned. You are mine today, Gregory,” Mycroft traced the shape of Greg’s tricep with his tongue. Lestrade shuddered. 

“All yours, Myc,” he panted. 

Mycroft nuzzled the patch of greying underarm hair with his nose, breathing in the heady scent of Greg, antiperspirant and pheromones. Greg bucked, hips canting upward against Mycroft’s. Their cocks, both flaccid and overly sensitive, rubbed against each other. Both men let out groans of pained pleasure. 

“We aren’t young anymore. I need more time to be ready again. And maybe a sandwich.”

“I don’t want to leave this spot,” Mycroft licked a line from Greg’s ear to his collarbone.

“I won’t disappear,” he softly chuckled.

“I won’t either, Gregory.” Mycroft looked into his eyes. “I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. But I’m not going to disappear.”

With his hands free, Greg cupped Mycroft’s face. “I like Christmas again.” 

“I have found a way to celebrate without worrying about Sherlock.”


End file.
